


To Pry (you apart)

by Nakimochiku



Category: Vampire Knight
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 00:18:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakimochiku/pseuds/Nakimochiku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You've seen him lose control, just once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Pry (you apart)

You've seen him lose control just once in all the time you've known him, as he's normally so careful to be alone. In truth, you stumbled upon him at the time (a happy accident you'd gladly relive). He looked wanton, cheeks flushed, face twisted, clutching at his own shoulders and panting. You know what starvation is, by looking at him, and frankly, you want to see it again. 

He's drunk from you before, of course, but that was then. That was different. All just part of your giant game of chess against an invisible enemy. That was desperation, when he bit into you, and you could almost smell his fear. You want control, submission. You want him to admit he wants it, as opposed to needs it. He's drunk from you before. Just not the way you want. 

So you take to teasing him. Sometimes you catch his eye just as you sip at red liquid, let some stain your lips before you lick it away in a pink flash of tongue. Sometimes its a word, a reminder. 

Sometimes you actually want to press him until he breaks, and in especially cruel moments you can't remember what's holding you back from this end. (It's Yuuki of course, with her big watchful eyes pleading with you not to be the predator you know you are.) 

Your favourite is when he was in your office, threatening you or insulting you or glaring at you, because he refuses to respect you (both a fascinating and infuriating trait that makes you grit your teeth). You ignore him and continue opening letters, let the little ornate knife zip across paper and flesh and watch his face as blood wells in the cut. 

He inhales suddenly, whatever he'd been saying cut off as he presses his lips into a thin line, eyes glued to the little rubies pooling on ivory skin. His eyes speak of a hunger so old it has no name. He stares at you, wants nothing more than to press himself to you at whatever patch of skin he can find and drink until he can't. You can see that plainly in the way he holds himself, so tight, so rigid. 

You call his name and his lips part to moan, long past reason. He's a whore. If you told him to, now, he'd say whatever you wanted, agree to whatever you wanted, just for a taste. You ask if he'd like something to drink. A stupid question (you've had better lines, but there's something in the way he looks that distracts you utterly). He pants in response and shakes his head and backs away a fearful step, staggering into an ornate chair. His self control is something you like about him, it borders on masochism. 

He rushes out some excuse, ducks out the door and away before you can stop him. You know your followers are getting restless at the scent of your blood. You don't care. Just this once, you're selfish. You follow him, if only to watch him pant and struggle with that hunger, torture himself with the blood tablets only to spit them up again. 

You stumble upon something much different 

His pants are shoved crudely around his knees, fingers working on his stiff cock in a clumsy up and down motion, hips twitching up into his hand and lip held between his teeth to hide the little whimpering sounds he makes. He's pathetic. And enticing (what you wouldn't give to step out from the trees now, push him down and teach him all about blood, lust, and the fathomless combination of the two). 

You watch him tip his head back, revealing that tattoo, his throat moves as he swallows thickly. You inhale sharply. That's your name, tripping off his tongue, spilling like a secret into the forest over the burble of the fountain. Oh, but don't you feel flattered that you're the fodder of his wet dreams? 

He tenses, breath shuddering from him as he comes, crying your name like a prayer, like a dark secret borne only in shadows (you don't feel guilty for intruding on this, not this). He squeezes his eyes shut, cuts himself off from the world as he comes down, blood lust mingling with desire, a heady scent you commit to memory until the next time you provoke him to such debauchery. He buries his head between his knees and cries. 

You smile. He'll come to you soon enough, either when his pride crumbles to dust, or his need becomes too great. In the never ending game of chess, you've moved your knight precisely where he needs to be.


End file.
